Our friend Dave Lull kindly shared this link, where the Lit Hub blog interviews him (about half an hour) about his latest novel, The House At the End of the World. Contrary to the title, he doesn’t actually explain how to sell 500 million books. I would have noticed.
I didn’t like the book as well as I hoped to, but I concur that the very important themes the author talks about here are highlighted in it.
This is cool. Turns out Gregg Hurwitz, of the Orphan X books, is a student, friend, and collaborator with the noted Norwegian-Canadian psychologist Jordan Peterson.
I did not know that.
Lots of talk about good writing too.
Last week, an independent bookstore in Chicago splashed up attention for many Twitter users with a tweet complaining about a customer who wanted to rent rather than buy some expensive books. Rebecca George, a co-owner of Volumes Bookcafe in Chicago’s Wicker Park, wrote in Jan 9 tweet: “Turns out one of our biggest sales last month was for the person to stage their home for the holidays and now they want to return them all. Please don’t do this to a small business, people. That one sale was a third of our rent.”
The books were eye-catching art and cook book, no doubt published to show off the reader’s good taste. The most modest book in the set was entitled Authenticity: The Vain Attempt at Finding the Real You. (I’m sorry. I made that up.)
The tweet has been seen almost seven million times and picked up by news outlets, making January a very good month for sales by good-hearted book-buyers showing their sympathy.
What else is online?
Reading Good Books: An essential freedom that builds character more than we know. “American kids, more than ever, are stratified into those who read—those who have regular access to books—and those who don’t. I’m not talking here about basic literacy, but being open to the human good that is the enjoyment of literature.”
Kristin Lavransdatter at 100. Sigrid Undset wrote a “medieval romance in the twentieth century (published between 1920 and 1922), [and] she somehow reverses a thousand years of morbidity, bringing a long dead genre back to life. . . . Kristin Lavransdatter is really just a love story—but one of the most savagely honest love stories ever written.”
Mystery: All About Agatha is a podcast that has read all of Agatha Christie’s novels, discussed them, and ranked them against each other. I look forward to looking up All Hallow’s Eve to see if they place it within the worst five.
Writing: Backstory brings characters to life, making them appear as real people, except when it floods the reader with irrelevant details. So it’s a very good, except when it isn’t.
Terry Teachout: The New York art critic died last year on Jan. 13. Patrick Kurp calls that fact “comparably difficult to believe. It’s like saying France no longer exists. Seldom in my experience was so prominent and successful a writer so generous with his success.”
And Titus Techera talks about the conversations he had with Terry about film noir and its relation to men in post-war America.
Photo by Hatice Yardım on Unsplash
I was busy translating today, and then I was busy catching up on things I neglected so I could do the translating. So what to post tonight?
My latest default seems to be finding Andrew Klavan videos, because nobody does the writing job better in our time.
The clip above concerns his novel Another Kingdom, so it’s a few years old. I remember the period when he was writing it particularly, because at the time I was enjoying a brief period of personal contact with him. I’d written a glowing review of the Weiss-Bishop novels for The American Spectator, and he e-mailed me to thank me. About the same time he made a request, on the blog he was doing at the time, for recommendations on good Christian fantasies to read, saying he was writing his own first Christian fantasy and wanted to check the field out. I sent him a file of my e-book, Troll Valley.
I never heard another word from him. Ah, well. Maybe I should have sent him Death’s Doors. Or The Year of the Warrior. Or just kept silent. One never knows.
The DMR book blog has profiled me today. You can read it here. Thanks to D. M. Ritzlin for giving me the exposure.
In the wake of my fulsome review of Andrew Klavan’s A Strange Habit of Mind yesterday (it was so gushy it even embarrasses me a little, but I meant every word), I thought we could have some advice from the master on starting out as a writer. So here’s a video, which is apparently about a year old, since he plugs When Christmas Comes.
I should probably take this advice myself, though I wonder how many agents are interested in bright young authors in their seventh decades.
I have a vague idea that, in the happy long ago of this blog, I sometimes did journaling posts on the writing process. If that’s true (I could be wrong, and the early blog posts, on another host, are lost to history), this will be another of the same.
If not, this is an innovative new idea.
I’m in the throes of Early Novel Ecstasy just now. It’s a little like first love – your emotions run high; wonderful discoveries rush in; all around you, the world seems to organize itself to facilitate happiness and success. You know that down the road there will be disappointments, frustrations, despair and (possibly) failure. But right now it’s fun, and why waste the joy? Having a less good time today won’t buy me insurance against next month’s tailspin.
Last night I went to sleep thinking about a character in the book (Saint Olaf, if you must know). What made him tick? What kind of personality would account for his (sometimes bizarre) personal decisions?
This morning I woke up knowing a little more about him. As I floated into consciousness, I found myself constructing a couple snippets of dialogue that reveal part of the “real” man (as I imagine him).
Moments like that, in my experience, are one of the great pleasures of being a writer. It’s like grace; it’s a free gift and you can’t force it.
As I sat up to say my morning prayers, I looked up at the pictures hanging on the bedroom wall. There are three. I hung them years ago. Over the years, two fell down, and I was too lazy to re-hang them. This past weekend, I did re-hang them. Because my spirit was renewed.
On the left is a publicity still, in black and white, of Clint Eastwood as Josey Wales. Because, in its day, that movie spoke to me as no other ever had.
Next to it is another Western-themed photo taken around the same time, but it’s personal. It’s one of those studio photos that you used to be able to get at fairs and places like that – you dressed up in period garb and had your photo taken in front of a period backdrop. The camera was an antique, the picture a certified counterfeit. This was a picture of me and my college roommate, dressed up as desperadoes, displaying our Colt revolvers. We had it taken ceremonially, to mark the parting of our ways when we broke up the living arrangement .
I learned last week that this old friend is now institutionalized in another state, suffering from morbid depression. I won’t tell you his name, because he’d hate that. But you might pray for “Lars’s friend” if you think of it.
I realized, when I heard this, that somehow, at some time he’d dropped off the list of friends I pray for in the morning. Perhaps the fact that his picture had fallen down behind my dresser was a contributing cause. But the picture’s back up now, and I won’t forget again.
The third picture is a photo of C. S. Lewis, to remind me of my ambitions as a Mythopoeic writer.
Another small restoration in my life is that I mounted my Viking Ship mobile again yesterday. There’s a Danish company called Flensted that makes all kinds of lovely mobiles. I first saw their Viking ship mobile in my dentist’s office when I was a kid, and loved it. Years later, when I was in exile in Florida, I bought one to nourish my fantasies. I had it in my office in the library, but hadn’t put it up in my home since I retired. Wasn’t sure how to do it, as I didn’t want to put a hole in my ceiling. I finally bought a wall mount and got it set up yesterday. A lovely little thing, and very conducive to the writing state of mind.
Oh, that reminds me. I need to get back to the book.
I am excruciatingly aware that I’ve kept my fans waiting far too long for my next book. I just got a reminder on Basefook the other day, showing me a post I’d put up ONE YEAR AGO, saying I’d finished another draft of the new book (to be called King of Rogaland), and hoped I’d have it ready soon.
This is way too slow. I need to purge my life of some lazy writing habits.
In any case, I can now announce that King of Rogaland is finished. Wrapped up. In the can. It’s in the hands of my long-suffering publishing facilitator, who’ll be getting the e-book up on Amazon as soon as he can. However, he’s got stuff on his own plate right now (really important stuff, by the way), so I can’t promise when that will be.
Sorry. It’s coming. I promise.
In better news, King of Rogaland went off Saturday. On Monday I had a… revelation, or something.
I know now how the next book will go. It’s a stylistic departure for me, taking my work up a level (I hope).
The title will be The Baldur Game. It will be big. It will be epic. It will be the climax of the series.
Hope I can bring it off.
I’m working on it now.
Occasionally, I think. Even more occasionally, what I think makes sense.
Today I was thinking about stories. Or “story” as a subject. I’ve written about it here before.
I have a theological view of stories. I noticed first, long ago, that the basic structure of plot (hero faces challenge – hero must overcome repeated, escalating failures to achieve goal) works because it mirrors the basic structure of our lives. This is the art of living. Stories tell us how to live. (A bad story is a kind of crime, because it teaches wrong lessons that could get people hurt.)
Later, I thought larger. The universe, it seems to me, is a story. Christians don’t believe that life is an eternal cycle, as many of the pagans did. We believe that history is a narrative. It has a beginning and an end. Tolkien declared that the Resurrection was the “eucatastrophe” (the happy, unexpected turn of events) of the story. The final happy ending awaits.
I had the thought, this morning, that all stories with happy endings are, in some sense, Christian. Even if they’re profane and filthy. They still have a holy structure. Sacred bones, you might say.
But then I thought, what about tragedy? Is tragedy un-Christian?
No. Tragedy is (according to Aristotle) meaningful. The hero’s ending may be awful, but it means something. The tragic hero may deserve his fate (like Macbeth) or may be the innocent victim of Destiny (like Oedipus). But his death is significant. It arouses pity and horror. It enriches the spirit. There’s meaning in tragedy.
What is not Christian is the story of futility. The absurdist tale. I’ve run across a few in my time, and I hate them. One that comes to mind is “The Ballad of Buster Scruggs,” which I watched on Netflix. I can see the story’s value as a corrective to the conventions and tropes of the Western genre, which get turned on their heads one after another. But the final conclusion is emptiness. Another was “No Country for Old Men,” also by the Coen Brothers. I’ve heard it described as a Christian story – and maybe it is at some intellectual level too deep for me – but I saw it as a story bereft of hope.
I’m trying to work these thoughts into the book. Means a few last-minute adjustments.
So how’s the writing going?, you ask.
King of Rogaland is very nearly done. I’ve been doing the final polish now, taking into consideration comments I got from several first readers who were kind enough to take the time to look it over. I didn’t follow all the criticism, but some of it, I must admit, is spot on.
For instance, a fellow name Phil Wade, whom you might have heard of, pointed out that a particular plot thread had not been satisfactorily tied up. He was correct, blast his eyes. I set out to fix it.
It wasn’t easy.
There are times when you’re writing a book when you need to do something and you’ve got, literally, nothing in your toolbox. Somebody (say, Phil) raises a question and you realize that you haven’t even thought about the matter.
Possibilities suggest themselves. None of them work, because they conflict with stuff you’ve already nailed down. It’s like you’ve got to do laparoscopic surgery on your own body – there’s lots of important stuff in the way of the part you need to get at. (That’s not actually a good metaphor at all. But I like its vigor. What I was really trying to express was that the rest of the plot elements were already in place, and I had to fit this new extension somewhere in among them without bumping into the existing furniture.)
It’s pretty terrifying, really. It’s a question of faith. Yes, you’ve been through this before. You’ve seen ideas appear in the past, after days or weeks or months of brain work. But you don’t know that it will happen this time. This time the well may be dry at last. (Especially if you’re getting old. Lots of writers run out of steam in their old age.)
Mixing metaphors is often a symptom.
But it came to me at last. I think it works.
King of Rogaland is coming. I’ve got to get the cover finalized, and I’ve got to see if my e-book guy is available to help me format the thing and release it to Amazon. So it may take a while.
But it’s coming.
